


Days Long Past (Forty Seven Days)

by PinkMi1k



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Harry Potter Raises Tom Riddle, Horror, M/M, MIND THE DAMN TAGS, Not Beta Read, Pseudo-Incest, Romance, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkMi1k/pseuds/PinkMi1k
Summary: A miserable tale of how some feats are difficult, some dreams are impossible, and some people are inevitable. A story of one man's failed attempt at guiding young Voldemort into a life of law, light, and love.Another "Harry travels back in time to raise Tom" story because I am a damn SUCKER for them.Warning: NOT BETA’D and was based loosely off of 47 Days but will deviate a GOOD BIT from the original at Ch 5.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 136
Kudos: 269





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [47 Days to Change (a translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485385) by [snow_owl01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snow_owl01/pseuds/snow_owl01). 



“There’s got to be some kind of –“

A tired sigh. “There isn’t. We’ve checked.”

“Some… some ancient tome, maybe. Another one! Aside from the ones we’ve… We must have missed–“

“We’ve looked _everywhere_.” The lukewarm cup of tea he trained his hardened eyes on quivered with his voice.

He sighed again, forcing his broad shoulders to slacken, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was so bloody tired. Every conversation with her lately was taxing, and he was just. So. Tired.

He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing silently in his head. He didn’t want to see her face crumpled in hurt.

He’d never yelled at her before, but this time. This time, he felt the need to. Being muggleborn, she didn’t understand that magic wasn’t some kind of limitless source of ‘fix-all’ for all of life’s problems. Those who grew up in the wizarding world did, however. They had to. Tragedies happened all the time, whether it be on a large or local scale. Magically formidable families died out, plagues swept through villages, killing people of all kinds, prominent political positions or not.

Sometimes all one can do is sit quietly and make it through.

As brilliant as everyone said she was, he couldn’t help but feel spiteful over how little she really knew. Magic didn’t provide miracles. Magic was a method, a medium, a _means_ to an end. If the situation weren’t so dire, he’d think it quite funny. As it was, breathing deeply was all he could do to keep from crying. For all the words she loved to read, she never did quite figure out how to listen to anyone’s voice of reason outside of her own.

Ron couldn’t help but hate her a little bit for her willful ignorance.

But he knew it would come to this. He’d known for months, even back when they were knee deep in shifting sands, trekking through the most ancient and noble of houses’ mass burial grounds. He knew when their desperate ragtag group started referencing Merlin, looking into children’s story books for the Deathly Hallows.

What a mess.

But they were out of ideas.

This was all that was left.

“I,” she choked out, “I… how… what do I…?” He sighed again, straightening his stance as he rested a large hand on her stooped shoulders. If Hermione was the quill in their trio, Harry was the sword.

And Ron. Well. He was the shield.

“I’ll tell him,” Ron whispered instead, smiling bitterly at the immediate wash of guilty relief on her face.

“Y-yeah,” she hiccoughed around her fist, teeth slightly digging into her knuckles. After Ron told Harry, he’d undoubtedly go to her for answers.

She had none, but she had to keep her composure, at least until he left for this last ditch mission. But they were desperate, so if he felt the need to ask her, the least she could do was muster a reply. Even if what she said would be a lie.

“I’ll tell him,” Rom muttered lowly, turning towards the closed door of Harry’s room, “so just… I’ll tell him.”

* * *

“I’m sorry, what?” Harry asked, bewildered.

Hermione looked at him piteously as she shuffled the sausage around on her plate.

“Time travel, Harry.” Ron replied calmly, cutting into his own food, slowly chewing each bite. His current table manners were a far cry to those he used to have in their sixth year. But then again, a lot can happen in a year. Besides, it’d been a while since they’ve had a warm meal, and if their plan is to be trusted and carried out, it’ll be a while, still, until they can have another.

“Right, alright, yeah. I heard that bit,” Harry mumbled around his loaf of breath, tongue heavy and slack, “but er. What about it?”

Ron’s solemn blue eyes flickered up into his brilliant bottle green. “You,” he pointed his fork at Harry, “are going to do it.” Harry nodded stiffly at Ron’s expectant pause. “Hermione and I will remain here in the cottage, reinforcing the runes that allow you to return back to _this_ undisturbed pocket of reality, regardless of the changes you affect in the past.” Harry continued to gape at him. “This will be like a base.” He finished, watching warily at the conflicting emotions crowding on Harry’s face.

“So we can’t leave,” Hermione voiced in affirmation, “we’ll be here, and we’ll be safe, and it’ll be fine because we’ll have amassed all the resources we could possibly need. Even for you, for your mission.”

Harry gaped at her, mind full of static white noise. They’ve both gone mad. “And how long would this mission take, exactly?” Hermione flinched, then dropped her gaze.

“Could be a day,” Ron burped, “Or a decade. Depends.”

Harry startled. A bloody _decade?_ His eyes were round, thick soot lashes quivering as he flickered his look from one friend to the other. A decade _,_ possibly longer, if Hermione’s stone cold silence was to be believed.

“And what of you two?” He whispered. Growing up, Harry had always known he was living on borrowed time. He knew he was the martyr they were meant to have, expendable, and his death was almost always ensured in the horizon. Sacrifice, suffering, likewise, had always been guaranteed in Harry’s future.

But Ron and Hermione, on the other hand.

Harry looked at them both, noting their unwavering resolve and dedication to their cause. Ron’s shoulders were set, spine straight, face solemn. When had he grown into a man? And Hermione, with her chin set, eyebrows furrowed, and serious expression, looked every bit a woman, herself.

“Time,” Hermione replied apologetically, “works differently, unpredictably.” Ron snorted, and Harry threw him a helpless smile. “But,” she went on, undeterred with his interruption, “my understanding is that time flows faster in the past, and stagnates in the… ‘present’ bubble of its future.” Harry nodded along, pretending his understanding.

“Besides,” Ron said, voice full of grim determination, “even if we stay here indefinitely, Harry, we’re ready. We’ve got each other, extension charms, and a limitless supply of what we need for this.” Harry mulled over his words, having difficulty in wrapping his mind around the fact that his two best friends were willing to grow old, possibly _die_ here, in this small enclosed space.

“Harry,” Hermione cut in, serious and firm, “even if we somehow changed our minds and decide to leave and fight out there,” she jerks her head towards the lone and cloudy window, “we’re good as dead. Dumbledore, along with most of the order, are dead. The rest are either underground or turned sides, and there’s nothing outside for either of us.”

Harry gave Ron a hard look. He could understand Hermione’s take, but Ron had a family, brothers, parents. He had the most to lose out of all of them. “Blood traitors, mate,” Ron replied gently, “even if we weren’t the first to go, they’d get to us eventually.”

And that was the ugly truth, wasn’t it? Unless they rid the world of Voldemort and his cluster of Death Eaters, none of them were safe.

Harry pressed his lips together, expression dark. “What do you need me to do?”

* * *

On a street corner, a slender and comely young man clutched a trinket in desperate stiff fingers, a thin golden chain looped around his neck. A pained expression graced his aristocratic features, his long lean legs propelling him to his desired destination in a wild hurry. Although the area was predominantly muggle, any self-respecting wizard would be able to recognize the delicately crafted device hanging around his neck. It resembled a miniature hourglass, settled in the center of several revolving golden rings, engraved with obscure runes.

A Time-Turner.

In a flurry of light and pressure, Harry found himself in the year 1926.

“Hell,” he cursed, “Bleeding hell.” 1926 was very much _not_ their target year. They’d all agreed for Harry to step into 1946, yet here he was, a whole twenty years prior. He only had so many chances to return to his base; he didn’t know if this was a good enough cause to do so.

Harry felt his heartrate spike, thinking back on Ron’s manic expression as he stated Harry’s mission. “His weakness,” he’d said, “find it. Exploit it. Then come back, and we’ll eviscerate it.” Harry had nodded, the weight of their plans settling squarely on his shoulders.

Yet here he was. This early into such an important endeavor, and already, the execution was questionable. Harry brushed his wild curls back as the wind picked up, feeling his apprehension escalate.

“Sir,” a voice called out weakly, “sir.”

He turned, craning his neck in search of the person in question. To his surprise, it came from a stumbling pregnant woman, her face as pale as the snow she had fallen into. She was visibly weak, wraithlike in stature, her belly protruded monstrously from her jutting bones. No longer able to support her weight, she fell over, clutching at the streetlamp, silently begging him for aid with despair bleeding through her eyes.

Harry gaped at her in surprise. “Wh-what do you need me to do?” He found that the words coming from of his mouth were practiced, worn in with all the use he’s forced on them lately.

"My child... my child," she whimpered. Her shaking arms were stretched towards him, her skin pale, and she barely managed the strength to speak. Harry’s eyes were wild, scanning the populated street before them, noting the plethora of shops lining the walkway. He needed a place for her to rest. A hospital, maybe. "Take… Take me to an orphanage–"

Harry gathered her in his arms, rewrapping her shawl around her, and discarding his own cloak in favor of drawing it over her shoulders. “I’m getting you to an inn,” he replied instead, shuffling her forward and into a shabby establishment. Stepping through the entryway, however, he sighed in contentment. At least it was warm.

“It’s coming,” the unnamed woman called out, panicked, “it’s coming!”

“Set her down!” a woman elbowed herself between them both, waving Harry away. A midwife, maybe? The innkeeper? “I’ve got it from here. Have some mead.” Harry nodded stiffly, ordering himself a glass as he waited out the tortured whimpers and cries from the other room.

The door eventually swung open, and the midwife walked in, a sad smile pasted on her face. “Come, hurry. She hasn’t much time left.”

Harry smiled back, urgency vibrating through his body as he knelt besides the woman clutching a swaddled infant. The baby, like all newborns, was a funny-looking little thing, angry and pink, wrinkled skin covered in viscous wetness of its previous home. Harry looked over at his mother, smiling at the fondness he found there.

She kissed his forehead with reverence. “Love you,” she murmured to him, “’nd ‘m sorry.” Her breaths were coming shallowly now, further apart than they were. “’m sorry couldn’t care for you.” Harry’s eyes sharpened, narrowing further at the next words she uttered. “Love you so much, Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

The midwife ushered him out of the room, scooping the baby out of the mother’s arms, and bouncing the infant in hers. “Tomolo Writter,” she mumbled, “what an unfortunate name.”

Harry let out a pained gargle from the back of his throat. “Tom.” She hummed at him in question. “Tom,” he repeated, voice cracking, “his name’s Tom Marvolo Riddle.” The warmth of the time-turner was warm against his chest, and even without looking, Harry just _knew_ what day it was today.

December 31, 1926, the day the Dark Lord was spawned and released onto the world.

He felt numb, barely cognizant of the weight placed in his arms. Tom. He was holding Tom. He was holding _Voldemort_. A crazed giggle escaped his lips. It would be better, wouldn’t it, if he nipped the bud before it had the chance to blossom into poison? It would be so easy if he just–

“Oh, oh, I’ve got you,” the midwife cooed, catching the baby right before Harry’s arms could give way and leave the cement floor with splattered blood. “I’ve got you now.”

Harry looked at the wailing bundle in her arms, tiny spongy fingers grasping tightly at the cloth of her worn blouse.

Unwanted affection warmed his heart at the sight of pink skin twitching in agitation as the midwife murmured over the infant. Harry felt conflicted. How could he feel so much for such a tiny thing? To harm a newborn seemed nothing short of monstrous, but to keep him alive felt like a colossal mistake.

He could, of course, attempt to change the circumstances that Tom grew up in. Harry accepted the baby once again, nodding as the midwife disappeared into the other room in order to address the mess that was undoubtedly left there.

Harry kissed the baby's cheek gently. The warmth from the child's soft skin tickled against his lips, and he felt tenderness arrest him, then, ensuring that this scene was immortalized into his memory forever.

Harry nodded at the midwife when she resurfaced from the room. He could tell she was quite taken with his Tom. "Is there any possibility for you to... take him in?"

She froze, mouth agape.

"Could you?" Harry held the baby tighter, equally nervous.

"I’m only a midwife in spirit, not practice,” she’d replied softly, “our family is rather poor. My husband… we only have this inn, and as you can tell by looking around, we don’t have much.” She sighed, her shoulders dropping. “The orphanage would never accept our application for adoption," she murmured, her head hung low in shame.

"But would you be willing?" Harry pressed.

"Yes," she replied, “of course.” Her brown eyes met his unflinchingly, determination darkening her gaze.

If there was no one else, she’d take him as her own.

She’d make a good mother. She’d do right by him, Harry thought, if nothing else.

He handed her Tom gently, silently promising the child a better future. If not for him, then for the whole wizarding world at large. Tom, already an ever-so-clever little baby, seemed to sense Harry’s eminent departure and began wailing in protest.

Harry stroked a curled finger down the baby's soft cheeks, then stepped away and bowed.

"I’ll be on my way, then," he said, smiling ruefully at the small bundle in her arms.

Tom seemed to have heard him and responded in kind with a screech. Harry pretended that his heart didn’t break along with the crack of Tom’s infantile voice, frantic hiccoughs accompanying his wails.

He did his best to ignore the twinge in his chest and fastened his cloak about his shoulders. He had places to be, people to save, a future to ensure. Stepping out onto the snow covered street, he whispered empty platitudes about Tom’s brightened future, and the safety Harry would find in his.

He clutched at his necklace, and in a blur, he was gone.

The baby's pathetic cries were eventually lost in the snow, but they would forever echo in Harry’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twitter: @pinkmilk_fics  
> Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/pinkmi1k-ao3  
> discord: https://discord.gg/GRprYvn6
> 
> Drop a kudos. I'd love to hear from you.


	2. Chapter 2

“Eurgh,” Harry gasped, heaving lungfuls of air into his shaking body. His muscles spasmed sporadically, contracting and releasing their hold in uneven intervals. His stomach was twisted in knots, and if he stayed in his current position, he was almost certain he’d drown in his own upchuck. 

Was he back at the base? Did he make it, or was he dying? 

The room was spinning, a hazy sway of blurry shadows, warmly lit at the edges by what Harry guessed to be some kind of fire. 

“Two minutes and forty eight seconds,” Hermione’s voice rang out clearly, “almost three.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, blinking them rapidly in quick succession in hopes to clear his vision. His vision. Where were his glasses? 

“Mate,” a masculine voice called from somewhere above him, “Harry, you alright?” 

Harry attempted a smile, and began panicking when the muscles on his face wouldn’t cooperate. Oh god. His breathing quickened, the panic rapidly eclipsing the temporary feeling of relief as his dizziness worsened. Something must have gone horribly wrong. 

“Relax,” Hermione clucked, her voice hushed in her concern, “that’s just temporal muscle dystrophy. You lucked out. It’s one of the milder side effects. Don’t fight it.” Harry whimpered, pain weaving through each of his extremities as he spasmed on the floor. A blooming ache made itself known as it throbbed steadily at the small of his back. His jaw clattered, teeth clicking as his fingers twitched uselessly in his clenched fist. Everything hurt all at once, but at least the pain had dulled from an abrupt malicious thing, to a steady radiating hurt. 

Harry knew he could endure this, not only because he’d persisted through worse, but because he had no choice. 

“Hermione,” Ron cut in sternly, his voice rising in urgency, “this ‘side effect’ doesn’t exactly scream ‘mild’ to me.” 

Hermione shuffled forward, the cloud of her hair an enormous blur. “Warmth helps,” she replied hesitantly, “but I don’t want to cast a charm in the event it reacts adversely with the device’s lingering magic. We could very well rip him into pieces or launch him into nonexistence.” Ron’s disapproving silence could be felt from wherever it was that he stood. “I’d lay a blanket atop him, but if his temperature were to rise above what the ritual recommended, he might get hyperthermia.” Ron let out a strained sound. “If hyperthermia sets in at this stage, he’ll die,” she whispered. 

They all heard her, though.

“Oh for Merlin’s sa-” Ron exhaled in frustration, “so what, we’ll have to just watch him, then?!” Ron bellowed, panic evident. “I can’t just leave him there -” 

“I don’t know!” Hermione yelled back, her voice cracking, “Is that what you’ve been waiting to hear, Ron? That I don’t know?! Because I _don’t_!” There was a thump followed by a clang. Hermione was throwing things again, Harry concluded, unsurprised. She had been put in charge of the finer details, the spell work, the preparation beforehand. Ron was their strategist, Harry, their executioner. 

Temporal magic, Ron had explained, was an ever fluctuating amalgamation of Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Divination. Unfortunately for their female counterpart, both Harry and Ron were absolute rubbish in all the subjects mentioned, and so it fell to her to pick up their slack. Hermione’s anger could very well have stemmed from her insecurity, knowing she was complete pants at least one of those subjects. Her skills in the others, even, were limited by her years of instruction at Hogwarts and what little information texts could offer. 

But she’d had to make do. They all had to make do. 

“I. Don’t. Know.” Her voice was quaking, now, picking up in volume the longer she argued. “Do you think anyone _knows_ , Ron?! Nobody knows. We’re the only ones _fool_ enough to meddle in temporal magic. So no, Ron, I don’t _know_. I don’t. Bloody. Know.”

Brittle silence suffused the cottage, the only audible sound the crackling of a roaring fire to Harry’s right. Now that majority of the pain had abated, he could see a bit better, enough to make out the sheen on Hermione’s face. Sweat. The large flame in the fireplace must have felt sweltering to his friends, yet they’d prepared it for him simply because they knew it would help. Harry’s lips ticked up in exasperated fondness. 

“S-s…” he coughed. “Stop-p-p i-it,” he bleated out weakly. Ron gasped, somewhere to his left, and rushed to Harry’s side. Cradling his head, Ron sat Harry up carefully, expression equal parts relieved and worried. 

“Hey, Haz,” Ron said softly, resignation laced in his words, “you alright?” 

“N-nev-never bett-tter,” stuttered Harry through a grimace. Hermione choked out a strained laugh and collapsed on an armchair. “D-don’t, ‘k-kay? D-don’t f-f-ight.” His throat clicked. He was parched. “N-not w-w-woo-wo-wo,” Harry growled, frustrated, but looked imploringly into Ron’s eyes, willing him to listen. It wasn’t worth it, not now. Especially not now. 

Ron dropped his gaze as he sighed through his nose. “Yeah, I know.” Harry brought a shaky hand up to his own throat, a silent request. “Reckon I got somefink for that,” Ron said quietly, leaving Harry leaning on the bottom half of an overstuffed loveseat. 

When Harry turned his head towards his other friend, he found Hermione’s gaze far away. “Two minutes,” she murmured, “and forty eight seconds.” Ron had returned with a glass of cold water, and Harry greedily gulped it down from Ron’s proffered arm, a thin dribble of liquid sliding down to his chin. When he finished his drink, he smiled at the redhead gratefully, slowly pulling his knees towards himself and out of the way so that Ron could take a seat somewhere on the small couch. 

“Yeah. Almost three,” Harry echoed, relaxing at Hermione’s terse smile. 

“How long was it for you?” Ron prompted, nudging Harry softly with his leg. In his exhaustion, he’d slumped into Ron’s long limbs, opting to keep his head propped up on his friend’s knee. 

“Four hours,” Harry replied, “maybe five.” 

Hermione frowned thoughtfully, “You’ve successfully established an anchor, then. That’s good.” An anchor meant a solid starting point. Inevitably, when a displaced entity were to spend enough time at any given point of history, they carved out a place for their existence from then on out. An anchor. 

Each Time Turner, when folding great gaps in time, could only plant one anchor. It acted as a reference point. Though you couldn’t travel back farther than the specific year you’ve established, you would no longer get lost either. Being cast adrift and lost in the great abyss was the second most perilous thing in Temporal Practices. The third most dangerous thing was the actual execution; the jump could have easily killed him. But naturally, Hermione was brilliant, and so Harry was alive. 

None of the books they’ve read ever mentioned the first. (1)

She smiled at him hesitantly from across the way, propping her feet up on the low coffee table in front of them. “Now that it’s been established, we’re ready for the rest of it.” Her expression finally cleared, eyes alight with the feeling of success. Her part was through. She’d gotten him through the worst of it. Hermione laughed softly, shoulders drooping forward. “God, Harry,” she said shakily in thinly veiled relief, “I’m so glad you’re back.” She leaned back, eyes closed, and face completely awash with peace. 

He smiled back weakly, green eyes roaming her face. It was a rare look for Hermione, though he couldn’t blame her. What she single handedly accomplished was a monumental feat. Historical, possibly. Not for the first time, he couldn’t help but imagine an alternate life where she’d never bothered befriending him. She would have made a splendid Unspeakable, Harry was certain. She was, after all, the brightest witch of their year. 

He wondered if she’d still be glad once he told her what he’d done. 

“You need an in,” Ron said sternly from his other side. “We’ve drafted your records, transcripts, and stuffed your pack to the gills with galleons. You’ll need to establish yourse-” 

“He’s a baby,” Harry blurted out. 

Next to him, Ron stilled, his words tapering to a quick stop. “Voldemort,” Harry specified around a cough, “that’s… he’s the baby.”

Harry didn’t have it in him to look at his friend. “Well,” Ron drawled dryly, “here I was thinking of another baby.” 

Across from Harry, Hermione had a hand cupped around her mouth in horror. Harry looked at her morosely, guilt eroding at his insides as her shoulders started to shake. God, he’s cocked it all up. Here his friends were, working so hard-

Hermione’s laughter burst out of her, her breath coming in little gasps as she struggled to get enough air in her lungs. Mirth kissed the corners of her eyes, and joy flushed her cheeks. She wasn’t crying, Harry thought, bewildered, she was laughing. 

“Of course he is,” Ron sighed dejectedly, “of course.” He shook his head slowly, a helpless smile similarly itching at his face. 

Once Hermione calmed down enough, she wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm and trained her gaze towards the smallest of the three. “I figured something would go south,” she admitted, to Harry, “due to the spatial difference in time, it’s harder to pick out a specific year. I was ready for you to have to wait out a couple of decades in the past before he was even born.” Harry nodded slowly. “Or god, imagine if it wasn’t even in the same century.” She leaned back, arms loose at her sides. “It’s a lot like shooting a car.” Ron looked on, confused. 

“That thing we took to get to Hogwarts in second year,” Harry quietly filled in. Ron’s eyebrows raised in understanding.

“Except the farther away it is from you, the faster it’s moving, and the smaller it gets,” Hermione continued, “and the target you need to hit is about the size of a knut placed at the nose of the vehicle.” Harry grimaced at the imagery. “There really was a lot of room for error, but we did alright.” Hermione sighed, “Yeah we did just fine.”

“What’s a vespicle?” Ron murmured. 

“‘Nother word for car,” Harry replied. 

“Why d’you even need two words for one thing?” his friend grouched. The other two huffed out a quiet laugh.

When Harry finally dragged his eyes from Ron and looked back at Hermione, she was already gazing at them both with something akin to exasperated wonder. “Harry,” she said quietly, her eyes settling on him, the relief in her eyes making them twinkle, “I’m glad you’re alright.” 

Harry smiled back. 

.....

  
“The longer you stay there,” Hermione went on, “the slower time passes for your physical form. That’s never going to change.” Harry grunted around a loaf of bread. They’ve been over this at least four times, just today. And it’s barely seven in the morning.

“So what started as three minutes here to your five hours, will end up as an hour to, quite possibly, five years. If you were to stay there any longer, it’s very likely that five months here could translate to a hundred years in the past.” Harry nodded. 

“So it’s important for you to really establish yourself,” Ron went on, “because the Wizarding World was much more insular back then than it is now.” Harry gave another noise around a spoonful of hot broth. 

“Malfoys,” Hermione chimed in, “think Malfoys, Harry. You’ll have to posture. You’ll need to concern yourself with pomp and presentation.” 

Harry’s nose wrinkled in disgust, mirroring Ron’s own internalized opinions. “It’s distasteful, we know, but Harry,” Ron’s large hand grasped at Harry’s shoulder, “it’s necessary, alright? It’s necessary.” His solemn blue eyes pierced Harry’s own determined green. 

Harry couldn’t do anything but say, “I know. I’ll do my best.” It was enough for them both because they had utter faith in him.

Faith, Harry often wished, he had in himself. 

* * *

  
He’d been crouched behind a tree for a good minute, now, heaving the lunch he had consumed not too long ago. Temporal sickness and muscle dystrophy weren’t consistent symptoms to his time hopping. The more accustomed he grew to the practice, the less it would hurt him. The major drawback, however, came at the cost of his lifespan. In order to temper the side effects, his body would draw on the reserves of his magic, thus shortening the years he had left to live. 

Harry couldn’t afford to be jumping back and forth. He had to make do with as few trips as possible, or he’d end up keeling over, dead. But it was better than the first time, he had to admit. He was only in incredible amounts of pain for a few minutes, at most. It seemed longer before. 

Straightening, Harry apparated straight onto a muggle road. Just across the street sat the inn he last left Tom Riddle. Examining his surroundings and finding satisfaction in his anonymity, he crossed to cobbled street, a smile blooming on his face. Tom could be any age, now, Harry didn’t know. All he knew was that any amount of years could have passed after he’d anchored, not how many. Harry knocked on the heavy wooden door. 

The door swung open, revealing the jovial face of the unnamed man Harry barely took note of the first time. He looked healthy, a flush on the apples of his cheeks, and energetic, a large smile gracing his features. 

“How may I be of service?” he asked, gesturing for Harry to come inside. 

A laugh was heard from somewhere within the inn, and so Harry eagerly stepped forward, turning to look at the man. This inn, though a shabby establishment, felt more like a home with the happiness that so obviously graced its walls. “I was here a few… a time ago, and I just wanted to check up on Tom,” he said, smiling apologetically. 

Harry had his face turned towards the door, and when shuffling sounded behind him, he opted to keep his eyes trained on the innkeeper, gauging for a reaction. Had Tom been difficult in his absence? Had he caused trouble? 

“Eddie,” a female voice asked, “who’s at the door?” Harry turned towards her, his gaze hopeful, if a little hungry. It had been a while since he’d last seen the baby. Surely with a mother as happy as this woman sounded, Tom would have known the taste of kindness, at the very least.

“Harry,” he said, smiling gratefully at the woman, only for a snarl to steal away any kindness he previously had on his face. 

There, standing before him with a hand on her disproportionately bloated stomach, was the cretin Harry left Tom with. Before he’d gone, she’d said she could only afford to feed the one child. That she could not have her own, and so Harry mistakenly left Tom with her in the hopes that she would stand in as his adopted mother. She wanted a child, Tom was wanting a mother. It had made sense at the time. 

But if she could have one of her own, a sickly voice whispered in his ear, why would she want Tom? In Harry’s mind’s eye, he saw the twisted spiteful face of Petunia Dursley. As an unwanted child himself, Harry knew that neglect was dealt to him on the best of days, abuse at the worst. 

Harry breathed deeply. This woman was not Petunia Durley, yet… 

Yet here she was. Hideously pregnant. 

What a bleeding cunt. 

Harry smoothed out his features, telling himself that maybe she’d kept him, and decided against giving him away, not until her own biological spawn was to be born, at least. Maybe she wasn’t as horrible as Harry imagined her to be. 

But the longer he stood there, the longer he could hear things that were _not_. There were no rapid tippy taps of little feet. There was no childish shrieking of joy. There was no little toddler clinging to the dirtied smock around her skirt. 

Or, a nasty voice crooned in his ear, she’s every bit a waste of space as you suspect. Harry shook his head. No. That’s not what he came here for. 

“Where’s Tom,” Harry stated flatly. It wasn’t a question. 

She fidgeted, taking great pains to avoid his eyes.

Harry suspected that there was no Tom at all. 

She shuffled nervously to her husband’s side, clutching at his arm, and pretending at a swoon. 

The woman murmured, “I’m real sorry about Tom, I am, sir, but our finances… we can’t afford raising two-”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, glinting in his fury. “Yes, I’m sure,” he cut in. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to hear about how the woman was the victim to a promise she decided to make. He didn’t want to hear about how miraculous the baby in her belly was, and how blessed they were, but for her to be able to provide for the biological leech, she’d had to rid her family of his Tom first. She’d rid herself of Tom, and opted, instead, to unleash him on the rest of the world.

It was painfully obvious by the way she cradled her belly that she only had eyes for the child that grew within it. 

She peeked up at him, face apologetic. “I really am so-” 

“Well,” Harry interrupted again, staring her down, “where is he?” If she wanted absolution, she would not find forgiveness here. 

Her lips sealed shut, her complexion turning a sickly gray. Her husband’s brow furrowed, and he made a movement towards Harry, but the woman held onto his elbow, stopping him. Harry knew she felt guilt and was hiding behind her husband out of shame. 

In his blinding fury, Harry couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

“Well?” he asked, the feeling of her betrayal sharpening his tone to a point, “Or has your pregnancy made you hard of hearing as well?” 

She flinched, and her husband growled. 

“The orphanage,” Eddie ground out between gritted teeth, “we left him at the orphanage.” 

Harry grimaced. Of course they did. Of course. 

He turned on his heel and strode out, his thick black cloak billowing behind him. If only Snape could see me now, Harry thought to himself grimly, bitter and angry just as he was.

With a vicious wave of his wand and a loud crack, Harry apparated to Wool’s Orphanage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) keep this in mind for later.
> 
> I UPDATE THIS EVERY FRIDAY. Today I updated right at 12AM Friday, but other weeks may vary, but will still be on a Friday.


	3. Chapter 3

Mid-stride, Harry shook his arms a bit, watching in slight satisfaction as his robes swirled like ribbons at the wrists, only to creep up towards the rest of his body, transforming itself into that of a muggle, time appropriate garb. He wasn’t worried about being noticed by the muggle variety, (he had thought of charms ahead of time for that), and what with the bustling busy streets of downtown London during the Great Depression, any magicals out and about were highly unlikely to have spotted him either. 

He looked down at his rather wide black tie and Snitch lapel pin, and coughed, pleased despite his initially sour mood. It wouldn’t be long until the cobblestones he followed led to a run down, three story, grey building, and he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t looking forward to catching a glimpse of Tom’s face. Would he be an infant, still, vulnerable and heart wrenching in his obvious preference for Harry’s presence? A confused toddler, wondering why he was treated in such an unfair manner? Or would he be a small boy, old enough to learn to stick to the ways of malice in order to keep himself safe? 

Sure enough, the presence of chalk on the sidewalk alerted Harry of children, and with great apprehension, Harry scanned the rusted plaque which read “Wool’s Orphanage”. 

This was it. Tom was here. 

Harry sighed, watching with trepidation as a thick cloud of condensation wafted past his lips and into the air, and caught glimpses of his reflection in the cloudy glass of one of their narrow windows. He paused, mildly startled at finally noticing the breath of six or so curious children pressed against its pane. He gave them a stiff wave. 

These were the same children said to have played a part in forming Tom into the unmistakably cruel character he later turned out to be. Harry’s eyes narrowed. Children were capable of a particular level of cruelty only present in ignorance. Thinking back to his own blackened childhood, Harry couldn’t help but frown in mild displeasure. He wasn’t one for children for this very reason. His brows furrowed as he became aware of his train of thought. His increasing empathy for his potions professor must be an unseen, but not unwarranted, side affect of this impossible suicide mission, Harry concluded.

Harry watched in bitter amusement as they scurried away, shrieking their delight and excitement. The worn door slowly opened to a woman in her late fifties with a stern face, haggard hair, and her apron threadbare and dirty. “Yes?” she asked, eyeing the rich cloth of his tailored suit suspiciously, “is there something you needed?” 

“Yes” Harry replied slowly, keen eyes immediately moving past her to see into the hall, “I’m here to see Tom.” Harry paused, then clarified, “Tom Riddle.” With the surprised intake of breath, Harry’s eyes were once again drawn to the woman’s person when he noticed her lean away from him with raised eyebrows in disbelief. 

“His da, are ye?” 

“No,” Harry stated firmly, hands clasped behind his back, calm, “I’m his godfather.” The woman stayed silent for a moment, and after a hurried nod, she beckoned him in with a dirty rag covered hand. 

“Well hurry in then. I’ll send for him.” Harry peered around curiously, noting the peeling discolored wallpaper and stains on both the rotting wooden furniture and window frames. This orphanage was just as hard up for money as the inn keeper’s family, if not more so with all the extra mouths to feed. The innkeeper’s wife, Harry sneered his derision, she didn’t deserve Tom anyway. 

“‘ere we are,” the older woman said in a hard voice, irritation bleeding through as Tom shrieked, “‘ere he is. Careful, now.” She shoved the wailing infant in Harry’s arms, ignoring his stiffening posture completely, “he doesn’t usually take kindly to being handled at all-”

Harry noticed her silence, glancing up at her widened eyes, as the baby’s cries quieted to occasional hiccoughs, Tom’s wrinkled face smoothing out to nuzzle tenderly into the crook of his elbow. “He, erm,” he said, awkward with her shrewd gaze, “I guess he remembers me.” 

She hummed, her face set in a frown. Harry ducked his head in embarrassment, hurriedly devouring Tom’s features. Harry didn’t know when he’d be back next, and for all the effort he put into seeing Tom now, he knew he could easily come back to a young man in the next second. Instances like this should be savored, Harry realized. 

The boys cheeks were plush, healthy where Harry expected them to be sunken. Other infants, he was aware, looked nothing short of sickly, but where orphaned limbs tend to be twig-like in size, Tom’s were chunky, soft creases decorating the plane of pale skin. The boy’s eyes blinked up at him, large mournful things the color of deep cerulean blue. No trace of scarlet yet, no taint of dark magic present. 

The baby gurgled, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as small star shaped hands reached up towards Harry’s own face.

“Guh,” Tom said decisively, “Bul guh muh duh.” He shook his arms, jabbing angry fists into the air in some unknown baby proclamation. Almost like he was demanding for Harry to stay. Almost as if Tom remembered him.

Harry’s emerald eyes softened as his full lips slanted in a gentle smile. “You’re a sweet one, aren’t you?” he whispered quietly, nosing his face against Tom’s powder fragrant head covered in down soft hair, eliciting his shrieks. He seemed happy, Harry mulled over to himself, but for how long? 

Harry had a choice to make. To take Tom despite Hermione and Ron’s instructions of covert ops, (there was nothing covert about this; it would qualify as near obnoxious if Harry really did decide to take Tom in as his own), or to leave him behind, and let him develop as he would, had Harry never interfered. Was Voldemort’s cruel disposition due to nurture? Or was it his nature? 

Did Harry really need to step up for the boy in his arms, or should he instead, step aside and bide his time? 

It was a heavy choice to make. His friends were better at all around decision making, if Harry were honest, seeing as the few times it were up to him to decide, he always chose the path of impulse and recklessness. Sirius’s face came to mind, and Harry’s chest ached as he drew in a tired breath. 

“Buh?” Tom intoned concernedly, tilting his head to the side, squirming in Harry’s hold in an attempt to get closer. Harry smiled sadly. Oh sweet baby, Harry thought to himself, I’d hate to see you change. 

But he will change, Harry knew. If Harry left him here, he recognized exactly all the ways Tom Marvolo Riddle would change. 

If only his two best friends were here with him, presently, Harry wouldn’t feel so conflicted. Hermione based her reasoning on principles, abstract ideas of right, wrong, and facts taken directly from pages of history texts and books about law, both ancient and current, while Ron based his method on desired outcomes, accurately guessing all the pitfalls in every realistically plausible plot, based on decisions made by one’s nature and instinct. 

Knowing their method proved useless, however, because they weren’t here, were they?

What did _Harry_ want? 

I want the inexistence of Lord Voldemort, Harry thought to himself, I want to be able to live out my life with parents by my side, arguing at petty things until the time came for me to grow up. And I’d be ready, because by then, Harry sighed, by then, I would actually _be_ grown. Not some boy soldier dressed in armour that I had no hope to fill. 

Tom gurgled again, his worried blue eyes seeming out of place on his cherub face. Harry smiled down at him. Or maybe the baby had bad gas. 

Harry knew his motivations for keeping Tom were primarily selfish, and that alone was enough to ultimately sway him towards leaving the baby behind. If his reasons weren’t to give Tom a better future, Harry figured he wouldn’t make for the kind of father Tom needed. 

Resentment was born out of duty and necessity. Love and care came freely. He understood the latter was what Tom deserved. To give him anything less could directly facilitate a worse outcome for Harry’s projected future. What with the ongoing bloody war with exponentially mounting casualties, they couldn’t afford that right now.

It was better for everyone, Harry vehemently thought to himself, if Tom was left here. He uncurled his arms woodenly, laying the panicking baby in the elder woman’s arms. Tom’s face was flushing an angry mottled red, face screwing up in his desperation to get closer to Harry. He kicked his pudgy feet viciously at the caretaker's abdomen grabbing at the growing chasm between them, wailing, large angry tears streaking down his cheeks. 

With every gulp of breath Tom took before a cry, Harry could have sworn he heard a heart break at least a little. Was that his? Or Tom’s?

Harry shook his head, feeling something slip off his shoulders. He grasped at the artefact still present around his neck. Whatever it was, Harry couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. The longer he stayed here, the less likely he was to take a trip back to base. 

In the distance, Tom cried.

It was better for everyone. 

* * *

  
  


The Time Turner glowed, and Harry was once again belly up on the worn wood of their cottage. All three of them were present, a tense silence ringing loudly in their ears as they waited out Harry’s convulsions and pain filled groans. 

This would be his new norm, they all knew, lest they found a way or a plan to negate or minimize the effects. Staying in the past for longer periods, for example, Harry thought wryly, the reddened panicked face of Tom flashing in his mind's eye as Harry pulled away. 

His chest hurt. It wasn’t on the list of symptoms recorded the first time. Why did his chest hurt so much? New effects of time skipping, surely? 

“Harry,” Hermione called out quietly, “you can’t keep doing this. Your body’s gotten better at absorbing the aftershocks, but that just means your life span is rapidly shortening.” He carefully turned his head, watching her drawn features get progressively more sombre. “You can’t, Harry,” she said decidedly, “so we’ll have to take a gamble and send you back when you’re either ready to strike him down, or wait out the time until you will be.” 

Ron nodded resolutely in agreement, shuffling parchment paper about the broad table. “I know you might have some trouble executing the task you’ve been sent back for,” he said amicably, tone softened in understanding, “but we need enough magic from two live bodies to keep this base operational.” Harry grunted out an affirmative, grudging understanding clouding his stormy features. 

“It would be enough if you stayed, Merlin knows you’ve got enough power to spare for three magically average individuals each, but more people means more liabilities, Haz. And if we were to fight Tom himself, neither one of us is skilled enough to win that fight.” Ron quieted, discomfort saturating his face as he and Hermione refused to meet each other’s eyes. 

They all certain that although Harry was magically powerful and the best dueler out of the three of them by halves, none of them still knew for certain if it was enough to win against the Dark Lord in his prime. Their only advantage was the element of surprise, and quite possibly, the lack of time Tom would have had to gather resources and members to back his malicious plans. 

That wasn’t much, of course, but they would have to make do because it was all they had. 

In reality, all three of them were certain it would have been ideal to kill Tom as an infant, but no one wanted to voice it out loud. 

How heinous of a war crime would they be willing to commit for the sake of the greater good? 

Where Ron and Hermione could easily give an answer, and maybe even carry out such an evil act, they were aware it was only because they both had so much left to lose. They also knew better than to ask more of Harry, Harry who’s had to sacrifice so much already. 

They wouldn’t do that. They could, but they wouldn’t. And that’s what friends were, wasn’t it? They had all the power in the world to break you, what little of you there was left, but they perpetually chose not to. 

With that in mind, Harry could feel his resolve strengthen. They were good friends, the both of them. They deserved a good life, a good future. 

But so does Tom, a traitorous voice in Harry’s head whispered.

And so maybe it didn’t come as a surprise to anyone when they heard the words that came out of Harry’s mouth, next. 

“I’m going back,” Harry swallowed, raising his eyes to the identical looks of tired understanding and acceptance on his friends’ faces. “I’m going back one last time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting a bit harder because I have to now pick and choose which chapters to smoosh together, and what parts to lengthen. (The chapter count went down idk if y'all noticed). 
> 
> I'm trying to rid the story of the filler content because I really wanna buckle down and explore the time together Harry and Tom have, instead of being stuck in the monologue of memories and "what if THIS" and "maybe THAT" Harry is famous for in the original 47 Days. 
> 
> Ideally, I'll keep this chapter count, but it's unlikely, as I'll undoubtedly encounter more chapters I want to shave off a ton of noise from. 
> 
> ALSO this chapter is much shorter than I imagined it to be because my poor heart cannot FUCKIN HANDLE WRITING SCENES WHERE HARRY SEPARATES FROM TOM AND LEAVES TOM TO BE PERPETUALLY UPSET ANYMORE it brings me so much damn pain, y'all I can barely see my computer screen from typing this. 
> 
> If this chapter seems a bit rough, that's because it is. I've been putting off revising the given chapters and writing this because I hate seeing Tom sad, so I left it till the last minute and literally wrote it in one sitting, no edits, and decided to post it hurriedly so as to make my Friday deadline.
> 
> So here it is, unpolished, nonbeta'd, upsetting, but up at 7:12 PM Fridays US Central Standard Time. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it as much as it pained me to write it.
> 
> join me on discord: https://discord.gg/GRprYvn6  
> twitter: @pinkmilk_fics  
> tumblr: https://pinkmi1k-ao3.tumblr.com/


	4. Chapter 4

It was cold and Tom could feel nothing but the ever yawning chasm in his stomach, gaping for sustenance that would never kiss its depths. He wasn’t three anymore; the little ones were fed regularly because they had to be, but he wasn’t big enough to hold his own against the older kids. He was four, scrawny, and in their eyes, an easy target. 

Things hadn’t always been like this. The last caretaker was… maybe not  _ nice _ , but she was a good deal less disdainful than the current one. She sometimes whispered to Tom about the strange man who’s scarf Tom wore around his neck religiously now; she was fond of him, this mystery man, but something about the way she spoke made him sound like a secret. Someone… mythical, near unbelievable. Even his name seemed magical; a  “Mr. Potter.” 

"He's a wonderful gentleman, and he really cares about you, Tom. He said he’d come back for you soon, you know, so it won’t be long now, I just know it. He even asked me to look after you."

All of this was said in an attempt to make him feel better, Tom was sure, but instead, he felt everything but. 

He loathed this Mr. Potter, absolutely hated him. If he cared about Tom so much, why wasn’t he here? Why was Tom subjected to the squalor of the orphanage and the torture of his peers? 

It didn’t matter.  A lot of good waiting for him did his past caretaker. Her mystery man couldn’t even manage to stop her from dying. Where was he when she needed him? Likely in the same gutter he’d been hiding to keep away from Tom. 

Although he was saddened every time he tried to recall Mr. Potter, only for his memories to conjure a beautiful blurry face and an unearthly sparkling shade of  _ green _ , he held himself firm in his false belief that he didn’t want anyone who didn’t want him. 

So Tom endured. He endured Mr. Potter’s absence in the same way he endured his late caretaker’s passing: silently. 

The new caretaker they got in her place was a Ms. Sophia, a wide woman in stature who was as severe as she was fat. She held little tolerance for children, and even less for Tom. He was willing to bet that her patience wasn’t even long enough to wrap about her circumference  _ once _ . 

His thoughts were cut off, however, as Ms. Sophia herself was going about with the basket of bread for the children, handing out one loaf each. If anyone tried to take more than their designated serving of “ _ one and absolutely no more _ ”, they were lashed ten times across their naked backs, and if the kids were unlucky, the other orphans would descend on the thief and rain angry fists and kicks on their already beaten person. 

Oftentimes, however, Tom couldn’t bring himself to care. He was just so  _ hungry _ . 

And sometimes, he got away with it. He was nimble and clever, and no one knew how good he’d gotten at stealing, but like all good things in his life, that too came to a close. Today, they noticed him. 

A vicious group of eight year olds had chanced upon his swiftly moving hands, his actions apparent with the loaves of bread clutched in each of his fists. They descended on him belting out roars of upfronted anger. Shrieks of, “He got two! He got two!” and “Tell Ma’am Sophia, tell her!” rained down until the caretaker herself finally appeared. 

“Hand over what you stole! NOW!” she bellowed, wooden spoon raised. The wooden spoon wasn’t a part of the punishment. That was just for sport.

“I already ate it,” Tom hissed back stubbornly, arms crossed to hide his trembling hands. He was just so hungry. 

“He’s got them behind his back!” shrieked a rail thin eight year old, Charles, Tom recalled, almost as an afterthought. 

“Get ‘em, get ‘em!” shrieked a dirty faced blonde, he was a new face. They got new faces all the time though, now more than ever, and sometimes Tom wondered. What was happening out  _ there  _ that had parents leaving their children in  _ here _ ? 

He grabbed behind him at the bread, relentless in his grip as the angry children crowded him, their larger bodies caging him in as they hurled their body weight behind each punch, each kick. Tom’s curled in on himself now, arms over his head, legs hunched over his abdomen. 

Everything hurt. 

They tried grabbing at his loaves, their greedy hands lunging for the crumpled mounds in his palms. Tom was feeling a mounting sense of helplessness and despair.

Who’s to say that  _ they  _ deserved what  _ Tom  _ was willing to work hard for? He stole it, yeah, but it wasn’t like they were going without. They had their own. It wasn’t Tom’s fault they weren’t clever enough or fast enough to pull off the same stunt he did. And what kind of victory would it be, anyway, if they won against him? Tom was  _ four _ and these bloody monsters were eight and ten year olds, towering over him, at least twice his size. 

Tom’s fury escalated, and with a burst of energy that came with his snapping temper, he brought himself to his feet, bounding his legs as fast they could go, propelling himself beyond their reach. He ran, keeping his fists closed over the loaves, taking them apart and dropping them piece by piece in the grass as he went. When he left the last of it onto the soil, he stomped on the crumbs, equal parts heartbroken and furious. 

Getting caught meant no supper, but to Tom, it was no matter. 

With the task at hand taking up most of his full attention, they eventually caught up to him, their legs longer and more powerful compared to Tom’s own. “He’ll get what’s coming to him,” one of the older ones snarled. He could feel himself bruising and sporting new cuts along his legs, but it was his arm that let out a sickening snap. The children paused, hesitant in their violence now that they knew there could be real repercussions for their selfish little persons, but Tom didn’t notice. 

He held himself still, a crooked smile twisting his features. 

If  _ he  _ couldn’t have the bread,  _ nobody  _ could. 

...

As Tom limped into his room, a rare yet genuine smile graced his features. “Morgana,” he called out, “you can come out now.” 

A small scaled head slithered out from under a pillow, the black diamonds racing along its back shining smoothly as it moved its way closer to him. “I’ve a task for you,” he said apologetically, stroking its head with a gentle forefinger.” 

Her tongue flickered out to taste the air. She said, “You smell of mice.” Tom snorted. 

“I’m clearly no mouse,” he replied, bemused. 

“You smell of mice right before I feed,” she repeated simply, her head swaying to and fro. Tom paused, considering the cuts and bruises on aching extremities. 

“Well,” he whispered softly, “I suppose I am hurt. Do you usually hurt your mice?” he asked his companion.

“Mice,” she murmured stubbornly. At Tom’s uncomfortable silence, she questioned instead, “Task?” 

Tom’s eyes glittered at her inquiry, and with great pains, brought himself to his feet while stretching out one of his arms over his head. “Bite all the ones that are about ye high.” Her head cocked back, scrutinizing the height. “No one shorter, but also no one larger. The bigger ones will kill you, and the smaller ones aren’t worth the effort. Then come straight back, you understand?” 

She hissed out an affirmative, and if the children screeched, “That freak did it, I don’t know how but he did!” in her wake, Tom didn’t notice, his head cushioned on a pillow, long carried away by his exhaustion from a trying day. 

* * *

The woman Harry had spoken to last wasn’t here anymore. Already, things were not looking well for his Tom. 

The old spinster who stood in her place, however, looked just as strict, if not a little frigid. Currently, she stood silent, speculative eyes raking up and down his person questioningly. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Is he here, then?”

For a moment, she stilled once more, and after a hurried nod, she turned tail to fetch the child.

“Tom!” the lady bellowed from the hall, “someone’s come to take you away!” At that, an uneasy stillness settled on the building. The stampede of little feet seemed to have suddenly halted, and all whispered conversation behind sticky jam coated fingers ceased. It’s as if someone had pressed pause in one of Uncle Vernon’s programmes, Harry mused. 

Harry then felt the presence of a smaller magical being slide into closer proximity, so he turned his body towards the source, and was met with a shocking ice blue stare. 

Tom RIddle, presumably, stood at a modest three and a half feet tall, all but drowning in grey garb which were too big, and an expression that was far too old to fit on a toddler’s face. 

“Hullo, Ms. Sophia. Hullo, new mister.” a smaller, four year old Tom Riddle greeted clearly, eyes never leaving Harry’s face. 

“Good afternoon,” Harry replied warmly, “Tom Riddle, I take it?” The child nodded stiffly, and the smile on Harry’s face threatened to grow at the hesitant jerk of the child’s head, “How would you like to live with me from now on?” 

Tom narrowed his eyes, wary. Suppose this was the man, then? That magical man that his last caretaker couldn’t stop going on about. This was the elusive “Mr. Potter.” 

Greedy blue eyes roamed the fine features of Harry’s face, pausing on the fine high cheeks, snub straight bone of his nose, and soot framed eyes of never ending  _ green _ . We could be mistaken for family, Tom couldn’t help but note smugly. Their features weren’t similar in the least, but Tom felt an insidious smugness bloom in his chest as he couldn’t help but notice that both of them were alike in at least one aspect that people could readily notice: they were both rather dashing. Well, he thought to himself grudgingly, the magic man more so than himself. 

It wasn’t until Tom looked closer that he noticed Harry’s stiffened posture. The man was noticing Tom, noticing  _ him _ as Tom  clutched at his elbow behind his back. 

Harry’s smile had long faltered. “Who injured you?” he asked contritely, clearly. He remembered holding onto his own hurts the same way when he was young, and Harry watched carefully as Tom’s gaze grew angry, defiant. 

It was with no small sense of satisfaction that Harry found Tom out to be far too young, still, to be self disciplined enough to settle behind a mask of calm and cool indifference. “No one that I haven’t already taken care of,” Tom replied, eyes dancing with malice and challenge, as if he were daring Harry to lecture him. 

Harry looked to an affronted and slightly frightened Ms. Sophia, only to sigh through his nose, and shake his head as he offered Tom an outstretched hand with a smile. “Well. I’ll have to mend that now, don’t I?” 

Tom didn't know if the new mister meant his actions or his elbow, but he glared at the offered hand silently. Exactly what did this man want? To adopt him, yes, he'd said so, but no one wanted to adopt Tom. They all knew better. It wasn't exactly a secret that Father Gus stopped by routinely to perform an exorcism on him due to the whispers of children and adults alike. When he was smaller and had to be tied to the bed to endure days of no food and vigorous chanting, he cried. 

But not anymore. He was big now. He learned how to protect himself not shortly after that. 

Tom looked back and forth between the open palm and Ms. Sophia, his eyebrows furrowing in thought, gaze darting about in quick consideration. Tom didn't think the man meant any harm, he could tell when people did; there was a stickiness to how the air around them felt, and Tom was never wrong about such things. But this man with the bottle green eyes felt like a clear warm day outside. He felt like cold refreshments after a full day of cloud watching, and exploring to find new scaly friends. He felt like the warmth of hot filling broth on the night of Christmas Eve. 

Decision made, Tom slowly brought his small hand up to clasp Harry’s, and was then softly steered towards the only part of the house he had yet to see officially: Ms. Cole’s legal office. 

A small spark of warmth ignited within Tom’s chest when he realized that he, too, was heading to the one room he never thought he’d see the inside of, where children were chosen to officially be a part of someone’s family. 

And if Harry saw the small hesitant smile blooming from the corners of Tom’s stern mouth, well. He didn’t mention anything of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a kudos and a comment. I love hearing your thoughts and concerns, especially the ugly ones. 
> 
> join me on discord: https://discord.gg/uZ3MEXscTB  
> twitter: @pinkmilk_fics  
> tumblr: https://pinkmi1k-ao3.tumblr.com/


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEX UNDER IMPLIED DUBIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES. 
> 
> You have been warned. 
> 
> Not Beta'd. Thank you for your patience.

When they were initially drafting up the skeleton for taking down Voldemort, Ron really thought he knew what they were signing up for. 

He was wrong. 

An object in the other room fell with a heavy thunk, and a resounding sound indicated that it was globe shaped, somewhat, and rolling about towards the kitchen. 

“S-someth-thing’s not r-right,” Hermione yelled shakily over the noise, fingers clenched around the table, her body swaying as it was jolted back and forth. 

“No,” Ron called back sarcastically, head whipped to the side, “you _think_?” The whole cottage was quaking. It was the fourth time this week, although Harry had only left some few odd days ago, and although all their larger furniture was magically anchored to the floor, it didn’t change the fact that being in their present situation was terrifying. 

Ron cursed, watching as a jar of ink smashed itself against the window sill from across the room.

The smaller items in their house were rattling now, as the ominous shaking subsided to the sporadic shivers of a mild earthquake. “Did you check the runes? I know you said you di-”

“I checked the bloody runes!” Ron yelled over his shoulder, and immediately regretted it as he saw Hermione shrink back. “Look-” Ron sighed through his nose, dropping his eyes in immediate shame, “I just-”

Hermione’s lips were pinched, a wrinkle formed between her brows, “I was simply asking,” she hissed, “and I understand that this is difficult, but it’s not _just_ difficult for _you_ , it’s difficult for _all_ of us.” She was trembling where she stood, a testament to her usually mild mannered temper, and Ron felt the wind go out of his sails. 

She was right, of course, but it was different, wasn’t it? She only had her parents to lose. Harry had even less than that. 

Ron, on the other hand, had a whole clan of Weasleys to look after, generations that followed the long legacy of his family in the form of nieces and nephews, and even newly extended family in his in-laws, and those they held dear. 

What with all the changes in the past going about, his way of life and the world as he knew it could have already ceased to exist. His _family_ could, quite possibly, just be… _gone_. 

Trying to wrap his mind around the idea was hard enough, never mind the _reality_ of the whole thing. 

Even with the death of his brother Fred, and the near perilous event Bill had to encounter with a rogue werewolf, and hell, even Percy’s betrayal, this was different, somehow. It was. Because although death still meant the ones he’s loved had left him, at least it still meant they _existed_ . That was important, wasn’t it? But what if… what if those who _were_ , simply… _weren’t_ any longer? 

Ron would have to shoulder the burden of a reality he’d never even bothered sparing a thought for in the past. 

He’d be alone. 

There would be silence where they used to be shrieks of conversation, oppressive emptiness in the spaces that used to house laughter and tears, and… the absence of people that no longer exist would echo endlessly in the space between his ears because _who_ would he _be_ , if not for his family? 

Who was Ron Weasley if there were no Weasleys to speak of? 

And he knew that made him petty, considering what was at stake, considering Harry and Hermione’s unshakable resolve in their cause, (and it was a _damn_ good cause because it was bigger than him and them both), but he didn’t know how to stop himself from feeling this way, selfish as his thoughts were. Staring at the woman in front of him, however, he knew he had to figure it out soon. There was only so much she’d put up with, and it was cruel of him to push her so. 

Even if she’d only had her parents to lose, a loss warranted grief, and grief had no limit. He knew this, really he did, but knowing was different from feeling.

Ron knew he had the tendency to become cruel in the face of adversity, but it was difficult to shoulder all of this on his own. Even in their tight group, in this, he stood alone. Hermione was a touch too emotionally absent, and Harry. 

Oh, Harry was a _mess_. 

Years of trauma had absolutely obliterated his existing emotional meter, and if Ron wasn’t there to huff in place of Harry’s upsets, he was convinced that Harry wouldn’t even know enough to get miffed, himself.

Like Ron had said; if Harry was the sword, and Hermione was the quill, Ron? Ron was the shield. 

Hermione’s eyes glanced past his as they settled on something behind Ron’s head. “Ron,” she breathed, face falling in equal parts horror and fascination, “it’s started.” 

He turned, heart lodged in his throat, his eyes quickly finding the object that held Hermione’s fascination; an enormous crystal globe the size of a sphinx’s head, easily larger than Ron’s entire arm span, should he ever attempt to cradle it to his chest. Its normally opaque surface had cleared somewhat, tendrils of ichor clouding its surface as a bright white light throbbed steadily from its core. It was mounted permanently to their large dining table, a cacophony of runes carved deep into repeating spirals surrounding its onyx base. 

This globe was the Selwyn family’s most prized possession, able to showcase the most significant events, both past and future, from timelines they occupied and even those beyond it. With the circling runes Hermione saw to carve out ahead of time, the artifact grounded its focus to their prospective plans, and it was limited to events that _could_ and _would_ be, should things pan out the way they expected.

Where Harry had the Time Turner, this globe was the lone magical item tethering Ron and Hermione privy to their friend’s efforts.

Harry, the bloody genius, had stolen it from the crypts of the Sacred Twenty Eight two months past, and Ron couldn’t help but grin as he recalled Hermione’s disapproving face and his own features as they settled somewhere between amused and disbelieving. 

“What?” Harry had said sheepishly, “we might need it.” Ron had laughed and Hermione had grumbled, but sure enough, here they were, finding it useful just like Harry had said they would. 

That bloke’s instincts were something else, Ron couldn’t help but think fondly. 

“What do you think it will show us?” Hermione asked, shifting in the seat she pulled out for herself. 

“Dunno,” Ron replied, swallowing around a dry mouth, “but I hope it’s something good.” 

Hazy swirls slowly solidified themselves into shapes of people, depicting the background as some sort of blurred thing, nondescript and gray. The figures themselves, too, were barely bathed in color, but it was unmistakable who the pair were. 

The taller man was handsome, straight backed and imposing with his sharp aristocratic features and broad shoulders. The smaller figure was so obviously Harry, scrawny in the face of malnourishment, bruised and battered due to his hell bound relatives. The figure he presented was painfully familiar, but Ron knew that Harry must have been much younger than when they’d first met because although his friend had always been short in stature, he barely cleared the other man’s hip. 

“Who’s that, you reckon?” Ron whispered, breaking the rapturous silence that descended upon them both. 

“Well,” Hermione murmured back, just as quietly, “it’s got to be _him_. Look at the miniscule patch on his lapels. That’s the Slytherin crest.”

Ron nodded absently. “And that bloke looks too old to be in Hogwarts, yeah? S’got to be You-Know-Who, the bastard.” Hermione shot him a look over the rising voices curling around the globe. 

“Hush, now,” she admonished, “something’s happening.” 

Harry trailed after the man, wide eyed and clearly in awe, “Family?” he said quietly, voice high in wonder, “I didn’t know I had one of those.” Small hands were fidgeting with the hem of his overly large shirt, so ill fitting that it fell off one shoulder like a dress. What little he wore underneath remained hidden, coltish legs exposed, cuts and bruises visible at the surface of the skin of his knees. 

Those Dursley bastards, Ron couldn’t help but think in ire, grinding his teeth. 

“‘Tunia lets me call her ‘aunt’ sometimes in public,” Harry murmured thoughtfully, tugging the raggedy shirt up, exposing lily white thighs, unblemished and baby soft in his youth. “Does that count?” He looked up at Tom with large owl-like eyes, pupils blown wide in his ever present childish curiosity. 

Death. Beheading. A stake through the heart. That’s what they should have been dealt with. That family never deserved Harry. 

Tom looked down at him indulgently, “Indeed you do. I’m yours, and you, sweet thing, are all _mine_.” Something about the way the man said it made Hermione’s eyes narrow, and when she met Ron’s gaze, he too, felt a sense of unease settle onto the pit of his stomach. 

Both of them stayed silent, however, afraid to voice their concerns, afraid that somehow, that made them all the more _real_ , and continued to look on, apprehension clearly etched into their features. 

The figures fizzled out and static continued to sing through the globe as different landscapes zipped by, too fast to discern what each scenery held. 

Eventually, however, it stilled on one. 

Upon seeing the scene, Ron and Hermione immediately wished it hadn’t.

It depicted two bodies, one shamelessly nude undulating against a dressed individual, his legs spread against a clothed lap. The men in question were similar in coloring, though the only discernible features belonged to the older man, clearly in his fifties, facing a mirror that allowed for Hermione and Ron to act as accidental voyeurs of their intimate scene. 

Voldemort, Ron’s horrified mind confirmed, recalling the resemblance of the young boy he saw in the chambers during his second year, and the one depicted in the crystal ball before him. That fully clothed man was an older Tom Riddle. Bile churned in Ron’s stomach. He squinted his blue eyes to see the other individual better, but the young man had his face hidden in the junction of his partner’s neck. 

Hermione’s eyes widened before she immediately furrowed her brows, “I- This can’t be-” She threw her body back into the chair, shaky hands crawling up over her eyes to shield them of the perceived horror in front of her. What? _What_ in the _devil-_

But Ron hadn’t caught on to Hermione’s suspicions yet, so instead of flinching back the way she did, he leaned forward, trying to take a peak at who this other person could possibly be, a boy whose twin dimples above the swell of his arse cheeks deepened attractively with every helpless swing of his hips, thick thighs tensing and relaxing as he rode after his own pleasure. Though he could only see the young man’s posterior, he looked beautiful, wanton and reckless with abandon. It was easy to imagine, Ron privately surmised, how a Dark Lord such as Voldemort could fall to temptations of the flesh.

Whimpers and groans were spilling from unseen lips as involuntary shivers crawled up his soft unblemished spine. Steady sounds of “uh uh” crescendoed as Tom violently left visible purple fingerlike bruises on the fleshy meat jiggling on his backside, thrusting up hard in a furiously slow pace. Voldemort looked to be in no rush, his face seemingly concentrated on the task at hand, admiring their joint reflection in the mirror in front of him, fingers tracing lazily over the stretched hole of the one that repeatedly impaled himself enthusiastically onto the Dark Lord’s cock. If nothing else, it was clear who was driving the express in this unfortunate scene of a trainwreck.

Even Ron, your typical run-of-the-mill _woman_ loving enthusiast, thank you very much, couldn’t help but swallow the saliva that pooled in his mouth as he watched. It was simply obscene how the younger man’s hole blushed a dark rose as it struggled around the thick girth of the Voldemort’s monster shaft; it clutched down as Tom drew himself out and caved in as he thrust up. Embarrassedly, Ron couldn’t help but think that the young man’s hole was clearly meant to swallow cock. The secret boy in question was, undoubtedly, made to be a vessel of pleasure. 

And Ron didn’t feel the least bit of remorse in viewing a scene already written to come to pass, because any fragment of information could prove useful, and later allow them to gain leverage over their own Dark Lord. 

In the mirror, Voldemort smiled smugly, clearly pleased with what he saw himself, and if Ron was being honest, he was as well. 

Quiet groans were increasing in tempo as his partner neared climax, and slowly, a drawn out whimper filled the silent space, the quiet huff of Tom’s breathing twined with it in a low sensuous duet. Since the scene started, Ron hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of the young man’s face, but he saw a sliver of it now; the boy threw his head back, messy raven hair flying about like a glorious halo, the tops of his forehead visible just enough to showcase long sultry lashes befitting a well worked whore. 

Something about that silhouette made him pause, chest quickly freezing over in reluctant recognition. 

Who-?

Whispered encouragement fell to deaf ears as Voldemort cradled the wilted figure to his chest. Murmured congratulations, and “you did so well,” felt far away to Ron, who _should_ be listening in for a name, maybe, _anything_ to identify the individual.

But something uncomfortable had already taken root in the darkest pits of his mind, denial being the lone obstacle left between him and the glaring truth before his very eyes. 

There was something… vaguely discomfiting and familiar about the cut of the mysterious man’s figure that Ron couldn’t quite place... 

Soft laughter floated up and around Ron and Hermione as the stranger’s voice rang high in the air, happiness and embarrassing youth saturating his question, “Did I do well, Father?” 

Hermione was quietly sobbing behind curled fingers pressed against her eyes, refusal rife in the way it made the air stink of metal and magic, but upon the damning evidence of confirmation, she froze. 

Ron, too, felt his face flush green, sickened by the realization he’d been bestowed in the globe’s wake. 

That voice. 

They _knew_ that _voice_. 

That was-

“Of course,” Voldemort murmured back, hand softly stroking a flushed cheek as he steered his young lover towards the reflective surface, and stood with him in front of the mirror. “Your simple existence brings me joy, my dear heart.”

Ron let out a pained sound. Hermione had started rocking back and forth.

She had begun muttering the same phrase to herself, as if in a loop, “There’s got to be some mistake. There’s got to be some mistake. There’s-”

Tom bowed his head down low to the base of Harry’s throat, and the young man shut his eyes, red pillow plush lips parting in silence as he tilted his neck back to allow Voldemort more room. Harry’s features were slack in obvious pleasure, shivers willing his dark pink nipples to hardening into flushed sensuous nubs. 

Harry mewled his approval, and Ron, unable to look away, only managed a disgusted yelp in response. 

“That’s mad,” Ron whispered, sickened and horrified both, “that’s _mad_.”

In the Selwyn globe, a young Harry sighed, rosy cheeks tinged with delight, green eyes bright in adoration. “I’m glad I’ve pleased you, father.” 

* * *

Harry wasn’t under any impression that taking Tom in would be easy, but he was pleased to note that the child himself looked at him with something akin to relief. I could, at the very least, Harry thought quietly to himself, foster feelings of gratitude within the child, if not love. 

Gratitude was often tied to material things, and money, Harry couldn’t help but think in relief, he had a lot of. Growing trust, however, was harder, and love, more difficult than that. He pinched his lips in contemplation, thumbing the glinting golden snitches that traced the front of his vest. He’d still have to try, for Tom’s sake, but it wouldn’t do well to spoil him. Entitlement in the next dark lord was not something anyone could afford in any timeline. 

He was snapped out of his thoughts, however, when small arms tightly encircled his waist, and looking down, he saw a full head of wavy golden hair. “Pa?” the child muttered against his abdomen, “have you come to take me ‘way, pa?” 

Harry flinched, bringing his arms up and away from the smaller body that had stapled itself onto his person. Beside him, Tom stiffened, and the air around them crackled with the rising potential for accidental magic. 

The matron of the orphanage turned, huffing at the unwelcomed boy. “Billy,” she muttered, swatting at him with a rag, “let that man go right now.” 

Billy refused, whimpering into Harry’s robes, muttering indiscernible words that resembled “Pa” and “don’t want to be here ‘ny more.” Harry sighed. Truthfully, he liked children alright, but he’d be lying if he said he was fond of those at Wool’s, knowing very well the level of torment they bestowed upon his charge. 

Harry turned his head, observing his future boy in question and recognized the flush of anger quickly suffusing his cheeks. The childish reaction brought an immediate frown to his face. This wouldn’t do at all. Harry, as much as he hated to admit it, wouldn’t be enough to influence the child into a more neutral, less destructive life. The reality was that Tom needed to be well socialized with peers his age in order to curb his future homicidal tendencies. 

Looking down at the tuft of gold, Harry slowly brought his hands to rest on the child’s shoulders, gently pulling him away. Upon separation, the boy blinked large teary grey eyes up at him, features drawn down into a pout. 

Outwardly, Tom scoffed. Billy was _ten_ and _twice_ his size, besides. He had no business pretending to be a wretched baby, nevermind that he was Tom’s main tormentor. What right did he have, imposing on _Tom’s_ special day? Anger churned deep within his gut as he clenched his fists, wincing at the pain that laced up his broken arm. 

“What’s your name?” Harry asked softly, taking care to keep his face neutral. 

Billy sniffled at first, pathetic sobs preluding his stuttering as he muttered, “William Stubbs.” 

Harry’s right eye twitched in sympathy. Stubbs? Eurgh, Merlin, what an unfortunate surname. 

“And why did you think I was your pa?” Harry asked instead, the calm of his voice lulling Billy into a false sense of security. 

Billy brightened, seeing the opportunity for what it was. “B-because our old matron t-told me that my pa would come back for me.” The ten year old threw a narrowed eyed look at Tom, his tiny smile mean and utterly visible to the man in front of him. “He even left me that s-scarf that Tom stooole!” He ended his monologue in a loud wail, crocodile tears tumbling down his blotchy cheeks. 

To Harry’s left, Tom seethed. His _scarf_ ? Billy said it was _his_ scarf? Why, that _filthy_ lying _pest_ . Tom grit his teeth, feeling the beginnings of a headache, something dark pooling at his chest. He would destroy him. He would _eviscerate_ him until _nothing_ of the wretched _lying_ boy was left- 

In his fury, Tom’s eyes skirted up towards Harry’s face and his thoughts paused, tiny ministrations stilled in silent consideration. His godfather’s green eyes were narrowed in disbelief, clear distaste clouding his features. 

Upon feeling Tom’s gaze, however, Harry smoothed out his expression, painting on a patient smile. 

Listening to the boy tell a fib left a bad taste in his mouth, but nothing could be done about it now. That scarf, Harry knew, was his. If he walked over to Tom right now and turned the weathered tail end of it over, there would be a graying stitching that spelled “HJP” inscribed on the inside. He’d accidentally dropped it on the day he left Tom in Wool’s care. 

William was surely a liar and a bully to boot, Harry knew, and if it was possible to hate a child more than the devil spawn who killed his parents and everyone he held dear, then that’s where Harry was at now. 

But, Harry helplessly thought, _but_. 

This boy, though clearly cruel, could be the very thing that Tom needed in order to discover humility. Mistreatment in excess yielded trauma, Harry and Tom were the perfect examples for that, _but_ what of cruelty in moderation? Would _some_ strife encourage the development of empathy and build character? 

Harry felt three pairs of eyes weighing on his person. 

Well. There’s really only one way to find out. 

Calm eyes turned to the matron. “Draw up the adoption papers for,” he paused considering the two smaller figures in front of him, “both of them.” 

Billy’s face split into a feral grin and Tom seemed to drop into a dark glower. Harry felt his heart clench at the four year old’s expression, but quickly dismissed it. 

Whatever he did, however horrible it seemed presently, Harry did for Tom’s well being. Anything for Tom. If the boy needed a stern hand to guide him to a path of neutrality, a path that, at the very least, lacked malice? Then that’s what he’d be dealt.

Because at the end of the day, Harry knew his objective: to ensure the future wellbeing of those he loved and the wizarding mass at large. 

Traveling back in time, having to raise his (im)mortal enemy? It was all according to plan. So it shouldn’t matter that his decision hurt Tom because Harry had bigger things to worry about. Larger things, like the greater good. 

And Tom? Well. 

Harry would make it so that _he_ would be the greatest good the future dark lord could ever hope for. 

* * *

“And what of rooms, pa?” Billy called out in glee, turning in a circle as Tom gaped at their large abode. “Can I have the larger room because I’m older?” 

Harry watched on silently as Tom clicked his jaw shut, shooting a glare over his shoulder at the other child. 

“Your bedrooms will be up to you two to sort out,” Harry replied softly, eyes trained on Tom contemplatively, “I’d hate to have to step in.” 

Tom felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, understanding it for the threat that it was. 

“You’ll be alright with that, won’t you,” Billy bullied on, pushing past Tom’s injured shoulder. It wasn’t a question, not really, but Tom pretended like it was and nodded back stiffly, just in case his godfather was watching. 

See, Harry? I can get along with others my age, Tom thought furiously. His ire didn’t last, however, what with the ever growing awareness of Harry always _watching_ him. 

“I want the big one with the bay window!” Billy shrieked, footsteps thundering somewhere up above them.

Silently, Tom gathered his meager belongings, and with a look of badly concealed apprehension on his face, he opened his mouth to ask Harry a question, only to nervously shut it again. 

“Hmm?” Harry hummed encouragingly, curious despite himself. All of his memories of Tom depicted him as a settled young man, assured of his place in the world. It was nice, Harry admitted to himself, seeing a reminder that Tom was, in fact, human, and at some point, he’d been nothing but a boy. A shy one, at that.

Tom swallowed, scowling at the impeccable wooden floorboards beneath his scuffed trainers. “Where’s…” he paused, kicking at imaginary dirt, “where’s _your_ room?” 

Harry stilled. Could this be some sort of premature ploy at murdering Harry? So soon? Was Tom already irredeemable at the tender age of four? 

He badly wanted to verbally reprimand the child, remind him that the location of Harry’s bed chambers was very much _none_ of his toddler business, thanks, and if he could mind his own, that’d be swell. 

But upon looking at Tom’s wrinkled brow and a very worried frown marring his infantile features, he decided to meet him in the middle and instead, opted to ask, “Why?” 

Tom’s head jerked up, reflexively defensive, “For emergencies,” he hissed through clenched teeth. 

Immediately, Harry’s heart thawed, aching for the past bruises and hurts Tom was subjected to in his absence. It must have been numerous and severe, both, for a child his age to already know well enough to make contingency plans “just in case”. 

“It’s on the first floor, just through there” Harry replied softly, nodding to their right. He slowly extended his hand, fingers slightly curled in silent invitation. Tom was free to move away if he so chose, but Harry would count it a small victory if he allowed him the familial touch.

Sure enough, Tom stilled, eyes widening as the velvet soft tip of Harry’s middle finger gave a sweeping kiss against his forehead, brushing a stray lock of chocolate brown hair from his eyes. “For emergencies,” Harry parroted back, smiling apologetically. 

When Tom finally found his voice, his icy blue eyes dropped once more to the floor, the toe of his trainers twisting against the grain of the hardwood, “Is there… an empty room nearby, perhaps…?” His voice shrank at the end of his question, nerves tempering them near silent.

The almost inaudible inquiry further made Harry’s heart throb, a strange feeling of fondness angrily clawing its way up his chest, and lodging itself there. “There’s,” he warbled around a mysterious lump in his throat. Harry coughed pointedly in an attempt to clear it before speaking once again, “there’s an office not two feet away from my bedroom. It’s surely the smallest room in this house, but I’d be able to hear a mouse fart in there, from my bed.” Harry eyed the child in mild amusement, “For emergencies, of course.”

Tom looked up at that, fragile hope shining behind subdued eyes as he smiled uncertainly back at Harry’s attempt of a jest.

“Can I…” Tom trailed off, eyes wandering, “that is, would you...?” 

Harry huffed out a soft laugh and took Tom’s small sack of items from him, steering them both towards the empty room. “I’d love to have you close, you need only ask.” 

They walked together towards Tom’s new room, the child’s hand immediately fisted onto the leg of Harry’s trousers, too short yet to reach up and take a hold of his palm. 

Looking up at Harry’s glinting evergreen eyes, Tom couldn’t help but think that never before had he felt so... warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers. If you haven't noticed yet, I've changed the title from "Forty Seven Days" to "Days Long Past" because we're at the point where the plot grew its own head and is now bullying me into writing whatever it wants. 
> 
> Yes. This is where the plot diverges.
> 
> It will no longer adhere to the typical "47 Days to Change" plot, however a similar premise is still within sight. This fic will be split in 2 parts; the first will be Harry raising Tom, and the second part will be when Tom is grown. 
> 
> (This will all take place in the 75ish chapters planned for this fic.) Updates are every other Friday, or every 2 Fridays. 
> 
> Please drop a kudos and a comment. I love feedback, especially the ugly ones. 
> 
> join me on discord: https://discord.gg/uZ3MEXscTB  
> twitter: @pinkmilk_fics  
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